


Hammer Horror Halloween

by travellinghopefully



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Don't read if you don't like, F/M, Fluff, Halloween, RPF, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 05:46:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5117687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DO NOT READ IF THIS IS NOT YOUR THING </p><p>So, you and Peter go to the movies. Its Halloween, you have dressed up.</p><p>Fluffy smut</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hammer Horror Halloween

“Peter, you total ass!” 

He had made her scream, his first goal of the evening accomplished. Her fists grasped the lapels of his jacket and he wrapped his arms round her, pulling her close.  
Still laughing, she kept repeating.

“You ass, you total ass!”

“How did you know it was me?”

His costume was perfect, he was utterly unrecognisable as a werewolf, a disguise wonderfully offset by his perfect evening dress, tuxedo, dress pants, even a bow tie.  
She buried her nose against his throat and bit softly.

“No-one smells like you, or tastes like you darling.” 

The smell of him was unmistakable, Floris Limes, perfectly fresh, fruity, floral and with a glorious warm undertone of musk. She didn’t tell him, but she kept a bottle for when he was away, dabbing a drop on her pillow, on her sleep shirt, so she could imagine he was with her.

Peter had argued about them going to the movies for a late night Hammer Horror Halloween extravaganza. He had planned to spend the early part of the evening terrorising small children and handing out as many sweets as they could carry. 

Then, then, the rest of the night with her. He had tried to tempt her with hand made pasta, sauce, meatballs, tiramisu, fine wines and bed, mostly bed. He had been quite detailed and eloquent when he phoned her, the call becoming something else entirely when they found they were both somewhere private. They forgot entirely why they’d phoned.

Some hours later, she returned his call, they both laughed for acting like teenagers. She suggested the movies and dressing up. She could hear him rolling his eyes. He protested and elaborated on his earlier plan. She explained slowly and carefully, that dressing up, meant that they could have an evening together in public, completely incognito. Peter loved the fans and tried to temper his inner Malcolm Tucker when it came to the press. A night for just him and her, in public, with no-one any the wiser. He had to admit that it was a irresistible proposal. He agreed, and she crowed in triumph. He pointed out they could have dinner first. She reminded him in detail of the previous three times they had planned something for after dinner. They had made it as far as the kitchen table, the sofa and once the large soft rug in from of the fire in the living room, that was if memory served her correctly – the events of the evenings had left her recollection a little hazy and their plans utterly abandoned. He countered with her complete lack of complaint on each of those occasions, and finally she had resorted to saying.

“Trick or treat?” Her voice, low, seductive and utterly compelling.

Peter actually hesitated, weighing the possibilities and finally articulated that he absolutely, definitely, positively wanted a treat. In that case, she insisted he meet her outside the cinema.

He still fulfilled part of his plan, every small child for several streets surrounding his house, left his home screaming, each clutching enough candy to keep many dentists wealthy for decades to come.

He had managed to approach her entirely unnoticed, the smiles of passersby for his costume, not due to any recognition. He allowed himself to relax, as he hadn’t been able to for years. He spotted her and paused to admire her, her perfect hourglass figure accentuated by a leather and lace corset (elegant and sensuous and utterly breathtaking), this was cinched over a floor length black velvet gown, plunging sufficiently for him to feel heat pooling and tightening in him. He was too far away to decide whether her high heels were stilettos or boots. Her make up was considerably more elaborate than usual, her flawless skin pale, her eyes smoky, her lips full and glossily red with just the merest hint of fangs peeking from between her lips. He found the whole ensemble utterly erotic, and he realised he was already breathing more rapidly than the short walk he’d taken could account for. He paused even longer to contemplate the evening ahead, surely he could find a suitable way to persuade her that one horror movie was quite enough.

Any hopes that they might have had, that the cinema would be empty, and they could have seats on the back row were dashed as soon as they stepped inside. The place was heaving, most people in fancy dress and abundance of obvious students but plenty of older folk too. One thing was certain, if he didn’t get to sit next to her, he wasn’t staying, he had plans, ones that would be utterly thwarted if he wasn’t near her. Anticipating this, she had already purchased tickets, her grasp of the popularity of Halloween far greater than his. He thought of his childhood and carving a neep and dooking for apples, sweeties only from his gran.

He was making up for it tonight, he bought as much popcorn, soda, sweeties and chocolate as he could carry. She rolled her eyes.

“We can come back!”

“We will, we will need more later. Most time the snacks don’t last through the coming attractions.”

She laughed, Peter’s capacity for sweet things never failed to astonish her and still he remained ridiculously thin. She knew it was due to his punishing schedule of days of 13 hours of filming, often physically demanding, too often in appalling Welsh weather which the cameras amazingly disguised. She chided him for never sitting still long enough to eat a proper meal, arriving early and staying late to meet fans or pop in to the Dr Who experience or sit and answer fan mail. Had he learned nothing from Malcolm Tucker? Fruit and coffee was not a balanced diet. She did know one of his secrets, she knew how much he appreciated the hot water bottles, blankets and thick quilted coats in between takes and his costume of improbable layers was his own attempt at combating incipient hypothermia. He laughed hysterically when she had shown him some of the tumblr photos that focused on certain parts of his physique, he made her promise, he made her swear not to share the less that sexy layers of thermals he wore under his trousers. She had run her fingers over the silk of the pair that he had been wearing at the time, demonstrating just how alluring she found him in anything, even the accompanying ridiculous fluffy socks. 

An evening together was a rare luxury after months of filming, promotion, conventions, charity commitments and the demands of her own work. She was desperately trying to train Peter into being able to say “no”, except to her, of course.

They settled into their seats. He turned to kiss her, one, because he could, without comments or stares, two, she had secured him an aisle seat and he had the luxury of stretching out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles and not facing an evening of having them pressed into his chest by the seat in front. The luxury, the novelty of kissing her as much as he wanted was unlikely to wear off, and he had to focus on not just threading his fingers into her hair kiss her and pull her onto his lap, well, not at least until the lights went down.

She sighed, storing their sodas in the holders and placing everything except the popcorn under the seat in front. She absentmindedly stroked the ears of his costume.

“You know they aren’t real. I can’t feel anything?”

“But they’re so soft and adorable!”

“I have other things you can stroke.”

He attempted to waggle his eyebrows suggestively, in full prosthetic makeup, the effect was hilarious. She had to stifle her laughter, both hands clamped over her mouth, tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Well if nothing else, we now know your makeup is waterproof.”

He gave his very best grumpy Doctor harrumph. She buried her head against his chest, until she brought her laughter under control. The combination of his costume, the failed attempt at sexiness and now his grumpiness, made him even more adorable. She kissed him until the mood was recaptured, the start of the film entirely missed.

Peter didn’t mind if he missed the whole of the movie, but he knew Hammer Horror was a real love of hers, but when the alternative was kissing.... He traced kisses over her jaw, down her throat until he settled for sucking against her pulse, marking her. She placed a hand against his chest, pushed him lightly, whispering in his ear.

“You’re not the vampire, I am, now watch the film.”

He could be patient, it was just, really, he didn’t want to be. He focused on fighting her for the popcorn, watching the film at least for the moment. Dracula, Frankenstein’s Monster and Werewolves, which one was first?

Right, they were watching Dracula, probably. Peter Cushing, definitely. He had seen this many times before, but he had to admit it was captivating. His fingers tangled with hers as they both reached for more popcorn.

Peter grabbed her hand as she snagged the last of the popcorn. He fed her some pieces, allowing her to swirl her tongue round his fingers, only for a moment, then he focused on licking her hand clean. He placed the flat of his tongue against her palm, concentrating on capturing every trace of sugary butteryness, as well as driving her to distraction. He kissed where he licked and then he bit gently into the base of her thumb, and sucked against her pulse. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, and he found her gazing at him intently, the film forgotten again.

She slid her free hand under the coat Peter had folded and placed over his lap. She ran her fingernails over him, scratching so gently, maddeningly, enough to tickle, but not to satisfy. Peter slouched in his seat, and tried to arch up into her touch, chasing the friction.

He took each of her fingers into his mouth in turn, lavishing attention with his tongue and his lips. He was rewarded by her applying the tips of her fingers to him, sliding up and down his length, the friction from the fabric and her fingers against him, nowhere near enough.

Releasing her hand, he turned his attention to just behind her ear, her neck, her throat, his moans muffled against her, and by the soundtrack of the film.  
Her hand had stopped and he shifted in his seat, trying to rub himself against her hand. Her hand which was lying, tauntingly in his lap.

Film be damned, audience be damned, he wanted to pull her into his lap, have her straddle him, wrap her legs around him, grind against him. Sometimes, honestly, most of the time, he felt she might take unnecessary delight in tormenting him.

Eventually, her hand settled on his belt, he felt his button undone and she stopped as the film was in atmospheric silence. Peter recited a litany of Malcolm’s choicest phrases. The heightened tension he felt had nothing to do with the film. The sound track exploded as the moment reached its crescendo. She lowered his zip. Peter was quite aware he could, at any time, take matters into his own hands, but handing control over to her was almost all of the fun.

His relief at the release of pressure was short lived, he scowled, and groaned as he realised she had moved her hand back to her own lap and was giving every appearance of watching the film with enraptured attention.

Minutes passes, they may as well have been hours. Finally, her hand moved under his coat again, her hand freeing him from his boxers. She smirked at him, feeling the extent of his arousal, the slippery fluid dripping down his length. She squeezed firmly, running her hand from base to tip, just once, one finger just teasing his slit for an instant. His hips were levitating from the seat beneath him. He allowed thoughts of arrest for indecency to flicker through his mind and realised he didn’t care. However much the eyes of the other cinema goers adjusted to the dark, it was unlikely that anyone would presume anything other than he was in the throes of intestinal distress after consuming far, far too many sugary snacks.

He didn’t stifle his groans as she moved her hand away again. This was close to unbearable, the credits were rolling for the end of the first film, the lights would be turned on, there would be the intermission. He was trapped and beyond frustrated, and he was sure, he had never been this fucking hard. She was going to kill him. She loved to bring him close to the edge, again and again, tease him to the edge of madness, and he knew it was worth it, but she was going to kill him.  
He realised the lights were on, and she was stepping past him. She bent forward and leaned close to his ear and said.

“Want anything, love?”

“Yes.” He paused, she knew exactly what he wanted, what he said was, “ice-cream”.

She didn’t return until the lights were about to be dimmed again. He had touched himself twice, trying to ease the torment of pleasurable agony.

She handed him the requested ice cream, he wrapped his fingers round the icy tub, the sudden chill causing him to shiver, every movement sending jolts of blissful pain through him.

He was totally fucked. She had a hot dog, laden with onions and drizzled with stripes of ketchup and mustard. He knew exactly what she was going to do – she was going to kill him. He gripped the armrest either side of him, his fingers white with strain and tension. Looking right at him, she took the very tip of the dog into her mouth, and bit. She was going to kill him. She poked the merest tip of her tongue between her lips and flicked and licked at the sauce, nibbling the occasional morsel of onion, all the while her gaze holding his. Oh, she knew what she was doing to him as she slid the last of the hot dog between her lips, and then pulled it back – it was all he could do not to wrench it from her hands. She licked a tiny drop of stray ketchup from the corner of her mouth and finishing the last bite, she carefully wiped her mouth with her napkin and paid similar attention to her fingers. 

Peter had no idea what movie they were watching. At the point where he had decided to seize her hand to remind her where he needed it, her hand slid back under his coat. She rolled his balls between her fingers, the exquisite agony was almost too much. Whatever was happening on screen was reaching a point of some dramatic significance if the music was any indication. She stroked him far too slowly, paying far too little attention to the spots that would drive him wild. He was too far gone to care about anything other than she keep her hand on him, and her fingers wrapped round him. He was thrusting shamelessly into her hand, chasing, chasing, and her fingers pressed just below the head, his point of greatest sensitivity, and he lost it. He truly couldn’t remember when he’d ever come that hard. He slumped bonelessly in his seat, waiting to remember how to breath, how to see. When reality returned, he watched mesmerised as she licked her fingers.

Peter turned to kiss her, she squealed against him as he slid his tongue into her mouth, icy and sweet with ice cream. He wouldn’t torment her as she had him, but he would certainly have fun. Glancing to make sure she had her coat still draped over her knee, he slid his hand across.

He bunched the material of her dress, slowly gathering it into his fist, his hand trailing against the leather of boots first, then the silk of her stockings and higher. No underwear. If he hadn’t just come...

He slid his index finger against her, testing, teasing. He was pleased to find her just as turned on as he had been. He placed two fingers against her, stroking lightly, circling her clit, sliding against her, and she was already pressing against him, her hand tightly gripping his wrist.

He turned in his seat, wrapping his arm round her, lifting the arm rest between them, pulling her against him, kissing her with all the love and passion and intensity he felt for her. His kisses muffled her moans as he continued the tortuous rhythm he had set. Finally he allowed two fingers to slide into her, her back arched but he continued to hold her steady against him. The horror on the screen was sufficiently intense that he looked like a dutiful boyfriend comforting his partner, shielding her from the gore. He crooked his fingers so they touched against her perfectly, she was shaking in his arms now, so close. He pulled his hand away. He could hear every word she uttered quite clearly, each carefully enunciated epithet. He kissed her for each word, her nose, her eyes, her lips, her throat. He restrained himself somehow from dropping his head to her magnificent breasts, some things would perhaps not go unnoticed. He placed his fingers against her again and he felt her fall apart, felt her shriek as fingers that he’d held against the cold ice cream container tipped her over the edge. She buried her face against his chest, shaking, her hands pulling against him. He held her and kissed her and nuzzled his nose into her soft hair, inhaling the scent of her, luxuriating in the warmth of her.  
He had very little difficulty in persuading her not to stay for the final film.

After five minutes of brisk walking they found a taxi. They had their usual argument, her place or his? He made his customary argument about her bed, which he could only sleep in comfortably if he laid diagonally. He didn’t make his endless protest about the 15 matching pillows and bolsters – whatever bolsters were, or why it was quite so ridiculously high, or insanely firm. She eventually realised he was inviting her to stay, to spend the whole night, to wake up with him in the morning. She gladly agreed to his place. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of saying that she preferred his bed, ridiculously large and gloriously soft and with surprisingly decadent bedding. She would have agreed to anywhere that meant she could wake in his arms, no hurried goodbyes, no apologies.

He promised her he had no work the following day, no commitments, he was, entirely hers. Breakfast, lunch, dinner – or they didn’t need to get out of bed, whichever she preferred? She quite sensibly chose everything. Peter laughed. She relished these moments when he was truly relaxed, moments that just the two of them shared, moments that never failed to remind her just how much she loved him.

An unhurried shared shower, time to linger, to cherish...and then the bliss of making love. What was between them was no longer sex, they meant far more to each other than that. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, completely at peace.

Awakening together, the morning was filled with more happiness than either of them had thought possible or dreamt of anticipating.

The day after a complete box set of all the Hammer Horror movies arrived at her office, wrapped in a gigantic box, tied with an extravagant bow, and a note.

Love, P. Xxx

P.S. Move in with me? Yeah?

**Author's Note:**

> I know some of you really hate this kind of thing - sorry.....
> 
> Still love feedback though
> 
> Thank you


End file.
